


The Process of Stellar Ignition

by CaitlinFairchild



Series: Lessons in Astronomy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Developing Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Oral Sex, Post S3, Romance, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want us to go slow,” John says softly. “I want to enjoy every moment of this. Do you know why?”</p><p>“No,” Sherlock says, and it comes out a touch impatient but God, how he <em>wants. “Why?”</em></p><p>“Because this is the last time I’m going to kiss you for the first time. And this time, I’m going to do it properly.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the big finish to the "Lessons in Astronomy" series.
> 
> I really strongly recommend you start at the beginning, with [ The Boundaries of an Event Horizon ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1225309/) or this might not be completely coherent.  
> Come follow me on Tumblr:  
>    
> [Caitlinisactuallyawritersname](http://caitlinisactuallyawritersname.tumblr.com/)  
> or hit me up at CaitlinFairchild1976@gmail.com.
> 
> A million heartfelt thanks to fantastic betas HiddenLacuna, Cartopathy and masked-alias. They made this fic infinitely better and I am in their debt.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. It means everything in the world to me.

_“I. Um. I have tea,” Sherlock offers awkwardly, holding up the shopping bag._

_“Tea would be lovely,” John says._

***

John follows Sherlock up the steps and into the flat without a word.

“Just…” Sherlock waves in the general direction of the kitchen table. “Have a seat. I’ll, you know. Tea.”

John sits, folding his hands together on top of the kitchen table. Sherlock can tell he’s waiting for him to get past his shock and nerves, and that somehow makes it all even worse.

Sherlock’s hands are shaking. Just minutely, not so much that anyone not paying attention would notice, but enough that he deliberately turns his back to John and fiddles with the kettle so the doctor’s trained eye won’t see the trembling. 

Sherlock exhales through his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his mind.

Tea. He’s making tea. How is tea made? He stands there a moment, poleaxed. His hard drive is crashing, files corrupting. He can almost smell the smoke.

_Tea.exe File not found._

This is a disaster.

He’s pictured John coming back a thousand times, a hundred thousand times. In all his imaginings they would kiss and share whispered endearments and have a great shag and everything would be magically well.

In his imagination, it was never this stilted and awkward.

Sherlock’s on the edge of panicking, of fleeing into his bedroom and locking the door and hiding in there forever--Mrs. Hudson can slip biscuits and sandwiches under the door, he’ll be fine--when he feels a pair of warm hands come to rest lightly, tentatively on his hips.

“Hey,” John says softly into the fabric of his suit jacket. “Hey. You’re freaking out. Please don’t freak out. It’s okay.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and turns to face him. John looks up at him, stormy blue eyes soft and kind, crinkled with affection and concern.

“I missed you,” John murmurs. “God, I missed you so much.”

Sherlock is overcome by the desire to touch John’s silver hair. His fingertips rise almost involuntarily to brush the silky strands.

“I missed you too,” Sherlock says, voice low and rough.

They gaze at each other in silence, each unable to find the right words. Or any words. Another moment passes.

“I don’t…” Sherlock hesitates. “I don’t know how any of this is supposed to work. I don’t know what to _do_.”

“God, neither do I,” John says. “But I think we have to...whatever we might be, we need to go slow, all right?”

Sherlock nods. He has nothing else to go on, so he will do whatever John thinks is best.

“But,” John says, “I would--” he looks into Sherlock’s eyes, and a constellation of emotions Sherlock can’t even name play across his expressive, careworn features. “I would very much like to hug you.”

“I think that would be good,” Sherlock murmurs through parched lips.

John steps closer and winds his arms around Sherlock’s waist, hesitates a moment, and leans his head against his shoulder. The realization that John is here, real and warm and _here_ \--it makes something bright and sharp flare in Sherlock’s chest. He tightens his arms reflexively, pulls him closer, feels John relax into him. He’s much thinner than Sherlock remembers, his ribs palpable under his soft plaid shirt. Sherlock thinks of missed meals and field tents and strong hands caring for sick hollow-eyed children and sleepless nights under the glittering desert stars.

He lets his hands roam across John’s back and breathes in the scent of him, something warm and woodsy with a slight trace of an expensive floral shampoo, a high-end salon brand John would never--

Ah. Of course.

“Staying with Harry,” he observes.

John nods against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Until I get something else sorted out. I just got in last night.” His hands tighten around Sherlock’s waist, rub slow circles across the base of his spine. It feels marvellous. 

“You could--” Sherlock starts.

“No, I can’t,” John sighs. “It’s so tempting, but... I don’t know exactly how this is going to work, but I know that we’re not there yet.”

Sherlock sighs in response and rests his cheek on top of John’s head.

Kitten heels tap up the steps, and John backs an arm’s length away as Mrs. Hudson appears in the kitchen doorway. “Yoo-hoo, Sherlock! I brought you some--” She goes completely still at the sight of John, her silence as sudden and sharp as turning off a radio. 

A frosty moment passes.

“John,” she says finally, her voice colder than ice. Liquid nitrogen.

“Mrs. Hudson. Hello.” John’s shoulders stiffen, but his voice is calm, friendly. Sherlock is impressed by the equanimity with which the doctor faces his former landlady’s frostbitten gaze.

“I suppose if Sherlock wants you here, I can’t stop him,” she says. “But know that as far as I’m concerned, you are not welcome in this house.”

“I understand,” John says, his voice softer and tinged with self-reproach. “I hope...I hope I can change your mind, I really do, but I understand.”

“Well, then.” Mrs. Hudson draws herself up to her full five foot three of pure focused disdain and gives John a look that unmistakably says, Not bloody likely. She places a package of Chocolate HobNobs on the countertop as she shifts her gaze to Sherlock, her face softening into motherly concern.

“Sherlock, darling, I’m making Cornish pasties tonight, if you’d like to come down for dinner.” The message was unmistakable. _I have and will continue to care for you. The hell with John Watson._

“Possibly,” Sherlock replies in a neutral tone. “If I’m not too busy.”

“I’ll pop up and remind you. Lord knows you won’t eat otherwise.” Mrs. Hudson spares one last withering glance at John before turning on her heel and heading back down the steps. 

Sherlock sighs and sags a bit against the countertop. John exhales and rubs the back of his neck, his thin lips set and grim.

“And then there’s that,” he observes archly.

“John, I’m s--”

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry, Sherlock. She’s protecting you. I deserved that. I can’t say I would do any differently in her shoes.” He crosses his arms across his chest, a gesture of self-preservation that belies his words. 

“I forgive you, John. That’s all that matters.”

“I wish that were the case, but it’s not. It’s not just about you and me. You have people who love you, who want to protect you. If I come here to stay, she’ll be poisoning my tea within a day.”

“It would be the cake,” Sherlock says, “not the tea. Rum cake, or maybe spice, to hide the taste.”

“I guess that’s...good to know?” A ghost of a smile crosses John’s lips, but his face is tired and gaunt and a bit sad. He looks up at Sherlock. “I know I’ve burnt a lot of bridges, and rebuilding them is going to take time.” He uncrosses his arms, moves closer to Sherlock. “But I’m willing to do whatever it takes. As long as it takes. As long as that’s what you want.”

Sherlock thinks of all the things he wants to say. _I want you back. I want you here, now. I want to pretend the past four years never happened._ Sherlock hesitates, looking for the right words. Fails to find them.

 _Christ_ , he thinks. _When did I become so inarticulate_?

“I want…” he trails off. “Yes. Okay.”

John fishes in his jeans pocket, pulls out a pen and a crumpled Caffe Nero receipt. He scratches numbers on the back of the paper and hands it to Sherlock.

“New mobile,” he said. “I’d like to see you every day, I’d love to, but I’m going to leave it up to you.”

Sherlock squints a bit. “Why?” he asks, confused.

“Because you’d go along with whatever I wanted,” John said. “And you have to decide what you want for yourself."

“I want you,” Sherlock says, still puzzled. Had he not made that clear?

“And I’m glad,” John says. “But you need to figure out where I fit into your life now. I’ll help you with that, if you like. But I’m not going to dictate what I am to you.” He peers at Sherlock. “Does this make any sense to you whatsoever?”

“No," says Sherlock.

“Okay. Listen. Just... when you want to see me again, on a case, or for dinner, or just to come over and have tea… text me. I don’t have a job yet, so any time you want me, just let me know. And we’ll just take it day by day.” John smiles, a little more real this time. “I’m going to leave now, before Mrs. Hudson figures out where to hide my body.”

“Deep freeze in the cellar,” Sherlock answers automatically before the rest of his brain helpfully supplies _It was a joke, idiot._

“So you two have had that conversation,” John chuckles in genuine amusement. Sherlock shrugs a bit and smiles. Of course they had.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” John stands on tiptoes to kiss him, just a whisper of lips against his cheek, and then he’s gone, down the steps and out the door.

***

Sherlock carefully enters John’s new number in his mobile.

He opens an empty text message window and pauses, thinking of all the things he wanted say to John over the past year and couldn’t. Now that John’s here and he can tell him anything he wants, any time, somehow everything he can think of in this moment sounds clumsy and overwrought and hideously embarrassing.

Sherlock doesn’t want to have to communicate. He doesn’t want to have to decide “what he wants from their relationship”. (He can’t even think of that phrase without picturing finger quotes around it, which irritates him beyond reason.) He just wants to wake up with John and eat toast with John and solve cases with John and argue with John and do laundry with John and go to bed with John and have sex with John. Surely that’s simple enough without dragging tiresome relationship issues into the whole thing?

But Sherlock doesn’t know how to put any of that into words, let alone in a text message. He closes the text app and puts the phone down, picks it up, puts it down again. He huffs in annoyance.

This is _ridiculous._

Sherlock scrubs fingers through unruly hair and sighs before he gets up. He needs a treat, a distraction, and fortunately he has just the thing. He goes to the refrigerator and fishes out the skin samples (uncontrolled diabetic, Type II, insulin dependent) he’d been saving. Observing and charting visible changes in the stratum corneum due to high blood sugar-- _Acanthosis nigricans, Scleredema diabeticorum_ \--could be very useful in a future case, and the task may be just interesting enough to distract him from thinking about John for at least a little while.

***

**johnwatsonblog.co.uk**

_July 05_

_**The Army Doctor Returns** _

_If there’s anyone out there still reading this, hello._

_It’s amazing the difference two years can make._

_If you know about me, you know about what happened with James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, and I really have nothing else to say about that._

_Also, I’m no longer married, as I’m sure all of you know. We lost our daughter, and, well. A lot of marriages fail under the weight of trauma and regret, and I guess that’s sort of what happened to us._

_In my grief and anger, I did not treat Sherlock well, subjecting him to the worst of my hurt and devastation._

_Hoping to heal and move on from the worst chapter of my life, I volunteered with Doctors Without Borders and spent a year working in Yemen. I thought about staying for a second year, but I missed my life in London more than I can say, so I decided to come home._

_I left in great haste and without saying goodbye properly to Sherlock. I returned fully expecting (and deserving) hatred, silence, refusal to allow me anywhere near his life._

_As usual, I underestimated the man terribly. He forgave me everything, without reservation._

_It’s been almost two years since I posted here and everything has changed. Everything._

_Everything, that is, except Sherlock._

_Sherlock is still here. Sherlock is still my friend._

_Miracles do happen, I suppose._

***

Mycroft actually waits two more days for his inevitable descent upon Baker Street.

Sherlock has Battleship set up for his arrival. 

Mycroft looks pinched and tense, clearly dying to say something, to pass judgment. For some unknown reason, though, he only peers closely at Sherlock, takes a deep breath, and speaks not one word about John Watson.

“It’s your move,” Mycroft says instead.

Sherlock smirks, sinking his brother’s battleship without remorse.

***

Sherlock has been unable to bring himself to contact John, too overcome by jangled nerves and awkwardness. Lestrade turns up on the doorstep of Baker Street, nattering on about a box of ears, and Sherlock seizes the opportunity to make an overture.

John texts him back within a minute. He had been waiting by the phone, then. The thought makes Sherlock smile.

At the flat with Lestrade, going over the finer details of the case (the larger picture being, of course, that while the DI is smarter than the rest of Scotland Yard, he is still hopelessly mentally deficient), Sherlock is outwardly calm but he finds himself anxiously waiting for John to arrive. He doesn’t like the fact that John’s key is still in his coat pocket. John belongs here. He shouldn’t have to ring the doorbell like a guest. Like a stranger.

He’s berating Greg over his laughable cadaver theory when he hears the taxi pull up in front of the building.

Even though he’s been anticipating it, Sherlock still jumps a bit when the bell finally rings. Lestrade pretends not to notice, which is rather decent of him. Sherlock darts downstairs to open the door himself, half certain Mrs. Hudson would slam it in John’s face.

John smiles at him, almost shy. “Hi.”

Sherlock can tell by John’s posture that his back is sore; he’s still sleeping on the cheap futon in Harry’s spare room. Hasn’t found a place of his own, then. He shaved just before leaving for Baker Street, and he is wearing the blue jumper that Sherlock likes best. John clearly made an effort to look nice for him.

And he smells so good, better than cheap deodorant and shaving cream could smell on anyone else in the world. Sherlock feels the tightness in his chest loosen a little, and it’s an effort to not grin like a moron.

“You’re finally here,” Sherlock sighs impatiently, cloaking his fizzing nerves in a veneer of his old arrogance. He turns and mounts the steps, John following close behind.

Greg rises as they enter the room. “It’s good to see you again, John,” he says, extending his hand, and he sounds surprisingly sincere.

“Thanks,” John says, giving the detective a brisk, slightly impersonal handshake. “It’s good to be back. Really good.” 

As they go over the details of the case Lestrade is cordial to John--a bit reserved perhaps, but his body language and micro-expressions are surprisingly free from the traces of anger that Sherlock had expected. Sherlock tries, but is unable to deduce the reasons behind Lestrade’s unexpected response. Some common background, some mutual understanding? The two men had been fairly close before, a shared kinship of football and pub nights and a certain British middle-class male sensibility that would forever be a mystery to Sherlock. 

He’s curious, but now is not the time. Sherlock blinks, clears his mind, but puts a pin in the thought to revisit it later. 

The other two men, deep in discussion, don’t even notice his momentary mental absence. John seems to sense Greg’s lack of hostility and relaxes quickly. An hour later, as they leave for Croydon to re-interview Susan Cushings, it almost feels like it did in the old days. Sherlock finds himself hoping that perhaps everything can still go back to what it used to be, that they can still go home again after all.

***

**johnwatsonblog.co.uk**

_July 12_

_**A Salt And A Battered Ear** _

_The text had me instantly intrigued._

_**Severed human ears packed in a cardboard box full of salt. Could very much use a medical opinion. --SH** _

_DI Lestrade (everyone knows who we work with by now, so I might as well use his name) came to Sherlock with an unusual case. A woman in Croydon received a parcel containing two severed human ears packed in a box full of salt._

_Lestrade had a theory that it was all a prank. The woman had recently evicted several rowdy medical students from her apartment block, and he speculated the ears came from cadavers and were sent by the medical students as retribution. Fortunately, some lingering doubts made him seek out Sherlock’s insight, and the detective immediately recognized foul play, summoning me for a second opinion from a doctor’s perspective._

_I immediately concurred with Sherlock’s assessment. The ears were roughly chopped off with no medical skill and the use of salt as a desiccant was amateurish and clumsy. The parcel was unusual, tied with string rather than sealed with tape, and Sherlock deduced that the knots used were those of a type used by a person with sailing experience rather than a doctor in training._

_We paid a visit to the recipient of the package and a few pointed questions from Sherlock uncovered a gruesome double murder--the result of family secrets exposed and an extramarital affair gone awry. It was then a relatively easy matter to arrest the suspect at the marina where he was working on--you guessed it--his prized sailboat._

_It was an easy case for Sherlock to solve, and no gunfire or stabbing or kidnapping of any sort was involved (the word Sherlock used was “boring,” but as we all know, he’s a drama queen) but I don’t mind saying that just being back in the thick of things, running through the streets of London with my best friend, just like we used to, well… it was the happiest I’ve been in a long, long time._

***

After the murderer is captured (no chases tonight, they caught him as he was working on his boat; the stupefyingly unobservant man hadn’t even heard them coming until Lestrade was practically on top of him and slapping on cuffs), Sherlock turns to John, feeling the buzz of a solved case trickling through his veins.

“Dinner?” he asks, willing his voice to remain light, unconcerned.

John’s dark blue eyes flicker up to look at him, and Sherlock sees the desire there, tinged with amusement and a touch of apprehension. He smiles, a lovely thing that warms Sherlock to the core.

“Starving,” he replies.

***.

In a burst of truly ridiculous sentiment, Sherlock takes him to Angelo’s. 

Angelo is either psychic or his powers of observation rival the detective’s, because instead of the front table he gives them a secluded, private table near the back. A candle appears in front of them without asking. 

Memories of better, more innocent times seem to crowd around them as they place their orders.

Salad and bread arrives. John takes a bite of cucumber and tomato. Sherlock tears a roll into pieces, then smaller pieces, tries not to stare at John’s throat as he chews and swallows.

“Bloke brought me here once,” John says conversationally.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks upward. “Really,” he murmurs with amusement.

John nods. “Yep.” He pokes at the greens on his plate. “I thought we really had a spark, but then he let me down easy. Said he was married to his work.”

Sherlock regards him with a deadpan expression. “That man,” he says evenly, “was a sodding idiot who had no idea what he was missing.”

“Well, yes, he was,” says John, his lips twitching into the barest grin. “But, to be fair, he did have the occasional moment of brilliance.”

Under the table, John’s leg slides against Sherlock’s. Neither man pulls away from the contact. 

Their main courses arrive. Sherlock’s stomach is tied in knots. He nibbles at a corner of his lasagna as John inhales pasta. He’s far too thin to Sherlock’s eyes and watching the man eat gives Sherlock unexpected satisfaction. It bothers him--a lot--that John hasn’t taken proper care of himself, and Sherlock suddenly has a better understanding of why the doctor was always after him to eat. 

“So,” John says as he twirls his fork in fettucine. “A nice murder and dinner. Is this a date, then?”

Sherlock reminds himself to breathe, pretends to consider the question.

“I certainly hope so,” he murmurs, and John looks at him from under his long lashes, the small smile on his lips full of promise.

They linger over dinner far longer than necessary, picking at a shared plate of tiramisu as Sherlock deduces the surrounding patrons for John’s amusement. Too soon the restaurant begins to empty, and at last they find themselves on the kerb. Sherlock hails a cab and turns to John, fumbling uncharacteristically for the right words.

“Would you like to--” he starts, but John stops him with a gentle hand on his chest.

“I would love to,” says John, “but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I do,” Sherlock says. “In fact, I think it’s a fantastic idea.”

John looks away briefly, tongue darting out to his top lip, then he turns back, grasps the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and pulls him close. One warm hand comes up and slides gently into Sherlock’s hair. John’s eyes are wide and dark in the light of the streetlamps.

“I want us to go slow,” John says softly. “I want to enjoy every moment of this. Do you know why?”

“No,” Sherlock says, and it comes out a touch impatient but God, how he _wants_. “Why?”

“Because this is the last time I’m going to kiss you for the first time. And this time, I’m going to do it properly.”

Sherlock feels his world, his universe shrink down to just this moment, just this piece of pavement as John tilts his face up, pulls Sherlock’s head down and kisses him. His lips are warm and soft, a little chapped, and his tongue is in Sherlock’s mouth and he tastes a bit like whipped cream and chocolate. Sherlock kisses him back with everything he has, everything he can put into a kiss, everything he doesn’t know how to say. It’s their last first kiss, under a streetlamp on a rain-slicked London pavement as the fog begins to roll in, and it’s all like something out of a stupid film Sherlock would never willingly watch.

It is absolutely, achingly perfect.

Then the stupid, horrible, romance-hating cabbie honks his horn impatiently, breaking the spell. John lets him go, pulls back and smiles at him. Sherlock’s heart is pounding. He’s breathless. He’s grinning like an idiot and it’s ridiculous and he’s desperately in love and it’s the best moment of his entire life.

John opens the door of the cab.

“Get in,” John says, “Go home. I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll have our last second kiss.”

“I don’t want to wait,” says Sherlock, knowing how needy he sounds and not caring one bit.

“Waiting is good,” John says. “Waiting makes it better. And for once, we have all the time in the world.”

***  
Molly texts him the next day to let him know she’s come a across a really spectacular cancerous thyroid, she remembered he mentioned an interest once, does he want it?

Sherlock knows as soon as he lays eyes on her that she wants to talk about John.

He rolls his eyes and almost leaves--but damn it all, he really is interested in that thyroid and it will just get cremated with all the other bits if he doesn’t take it home.

“So,” she says, awkward and gawky as a fledgling bird. “John’s back in town, is he?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sherlock mumbles, noncommittal, not wanting to be within ten kilometers of this conversation.

“And how are we feeling about that?” she presses, carefully casual, avoiding eye contact.

“Molly,” he snaps, “don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”

Molly huffs a little breath but goes silent.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Fine, whatever. He just wants this over with.

“I hope you know by now that I do value your input, so if you have something to say, for goodness’ sake, just say it.”

“I just…” Molly tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He really hurt you, Sherlock. And I don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

Sherlock grits his teeth just a bit at the familiar wave of annoyed fondness that Molly always provokes in him.

The fondness wins out. It always does.

“I know, Molly,” he says, his voice softer. “He was...we were…” he gives up on the nuances of the English language, sighs. “He was grieving. It was bad. Things are better now. “

Molly looks at him in that clear-eyed way that makes him feel like she’s a human Xray machine. “That’s good. Really good. Just...be careful, okay?”

“I always am,” Sherlock says with a trace of his old disdain.

“No, you’re really not,” she replies.

He doesn’t bother answering, because they both know it’s the truth. Instead, Sherlock makes an indistinct grunt of farewell as he takes his wrapped package of thyroid gland and leaves, wondering when and how exactly he became someone who provoked such displays of concern in others.

Why did everyone seem to believe he was someone who needed protecting?

And also, when had John become something he needed protection from?

Sitting in the back of a cab, Sherlock decides the whole thing makes him feel very uncomfortable and he’d rather not think about it any longer. Instead, he retreats to his mind palace, deleting piles of useless information (political structures of feudal Japan, the spread of Black Death along trans-Asian trade routes) in order to make more room to catalogue every single moment he’s spent with John since his return.

***

John is on a ladder in the front hallway of 221, replacing a bulb in the overhead fixture. Sherlock swallows, noting how dry his mouth feels as he tries not to stare at the slice of pale belly peeking out under his jumper as John stretches his arms overhead. 

(Waiting, ah, waiting is torture. But Sherlock suddenly realises that, counterintuitively, it’s a rather wonderful kind of torture.)

“Completing various neglected tasks in order to win back Mrs. Hudson’s favour,” Sherlock notes dryly. “Not subtle, but likely to be effective.”

“I made a list,” John says, snapping the glass dome back in place. “This is number seven.”

“Out of…”

“Two hundred and nine. I think I’ll be forgiven about, oh, three years from now.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure you can reduce the sentence to eighteen months with good behaviour and frequent displays of true remorse.”

John chuckles. “Some grovelling wouldn’t be remiss, either.” He sets the last screw in place, descends the ladder, smiles at Sherlock. “I need to flip the breaker back on, then I’ll come upstairs.” He looks at the wrapped parcel in Sherlock’s hand. “Don’t suppose that’s something for dinner?”

“Cancerous thyroid.”

John’s mouth quirks just a fraction. “Tempting as that sounds,” he says evenly, “I think I’d prefer takeaway.”

They order Thai from the place two blocks over. Sherlock hovers in the doorway as John orders chicken satay and pad thai and green curry, and when he hangs up his mobile and slips it into his pocket he looks up at Sherlock and smiles, and Sherlock is almost overcome by his want, his absolute physical ache for this small, unassuming man.

His feet carry him without thought to John’s personal space, crowding him against the countertop, and he bends his head down to kiss him hungrily, greedily, devouring his mouth. John responds with a low, anguished noise, kissing back with equally ferocious need, and as Sherlock breaks away for a gulp of air John growls low in his throat and grabs Sherlock by the lapels, manhandling him easily into the side of the doorway. The display of aggression is startling, and the surprise must show on his face, because John stops, suddenly, eyes full of contrition and concern.

“I didn’t mean to --” he backs up a step, hand still on Sherlock’s lapel. “Shit. I’m so sorry. That was--”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.” He realizes how false that must sound, and changes tactics. “John,” he says quietly, “Really. You surprised me, is all. But not in a bad way.” Sherlock grabs a handful of jumper, pulls John in for a small, soft kiss. John ‘s body is wound up, ready for flight. “I’m not scared of you, so please don’t jump at shadows.” He presses his lips to John’s temple. “Don’t overthink this, John. We’re doing so well.”

“Sherlock Holmes is telling me not to overthink something. I think this is an historical event.” John laughs, a bit shakily. Sherlock pulls him into his arms, feeling a bit out of his depth as the one offering reassurance. John is stiff for a moment, uncertain, but then Sherlock feels him exhale, relax into the embrace.

“Come on,” Sherlock murmurs to him, and steers him into the sitting room, towards the sofa. Sherlock sits down. John stands in front of him, still looking uncertain.

“We have at least forty minutes until the food arrives. You can stand there and we can stare uncomfortably at each other, or you can sit down and let me kiss you. Your choice, though I know which one I’d prefer.”

John nods and after a moment sits down beside him. Sherlock has never been this assertive before, never really been the one pursuing, but this itch, this maddening need to put his hands all over John makes him bold.

“Do you want to kiss me?” he asks John.

“God, yes,” John breathes.

“And I want to kiss you,” Sherlock says. “So please stop thinking so hard about it, all right? Thinking’s my area, anyway. And I think we’re doing fine.”

John smiles, a bit shaky. “Maybe you should convince me.”

And Sherlock does, weaving fingers in silver blond hair and bringing John’s lips to his own. As they wait for their food the two of them end up snogging on the sofa like the world’s oldest teenagers, wet sloppy desperate kissing and hands sliding under clothes, aching to touch naked flesh. Sherlock had never really seen the appeal of this kind of thing before, in fact found the concept utterly immature and more than mildly repellent, but as John moans his name while they grind fully clothed against each other he can’t help but find the whole enterprise completely, spectacularly brilliant.

His lips are tender and red from kissing, his jaw scraped raw and pink from John’s end-of-day stubble. He’s never been this hard in his entire life, absolutely aching with desire.

“I wish,” Sherlock says in between kisses and panting breaths, “we had done this six years ago.”

“God, me too,” John sighs, pulling Sherlock’s hips down and thrusting insistently against him, making them both gasp and moan as they move together, driven by pure animal instinct.

They are so distracted by each other that they don’t hear the doorbell, nor do they hear Mrs. Hudson come upstairs until her sharp, annoyed harrumph pulls them from their reverie. Sherlock looks up from his compromising position on top of John to see his landlady in the doorway, arms crossed. She arches an eyebrow at the two of them, unsmiling.

“Honestly, Sherlock!” she tuts, pretending she doesn’t even see John underneath him, his legs still wrapped around Sherlock’s arse. “I can see you’re a bit distracted, but I’m in the middle of my programme and the delivery man’s downstairs, he’s been ringing the doorbell for ages--”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says in his best put upon and haughty voice, as if he hadn’t just been caught dry-humping his former flatmate. 

Mrs. Hudson sighs, shakes her head, and goes back downstairs. As soon as the door to her flat closes, John starts to quiver minutely with suppressed giggles and Sherlock can’t help but give in, laughing helplessly until his sides hurt.

“Well, so much for good behaviour,” John sighs, giving him one last kiss. “Shove off, I’m starving. Where’s your wallet?”

After dinner, Sherlock had intended to begin making notes on the experiments he has planned for the thyroid, but somehow finds himself instead in his armchair with a lap full of John Watson, hands under his shirt and roving across the warm skin of his back as their kisses again grow messy and feverish. John moans softly into his mouth and each small noise is an electrical shock wired straight to Sherlock’s aching cock. 

“Stay here tonight,” he whispers.

“Next time,” John murmurs into the side of his neck. “We’re doing this properly. Third date rule.”

Sherlock pushes him back, looks up at him with narrowed eyes. John’s face is flushed, his hair a riot. He looks indecent, Sherlock wants to _devour_ him and he’s just going to get up and leave...

“You’re a tease and a horrible person,” Sherlock pouts. “There is no such thing. You’re making that up just to torture me."

John breaks away, stands, begins to tuck his shirt back in. “I’m really not, look it up if you like,” John says. “It’s a rule for a reason. We’re working on a new relationship and it’s better not to jump directly into sex.”

“We’ve been in a relationship for six years,” counters Sherlock.

“And four of those were utter shit,” John replies. “Three of those, we weren’t even in the same country. Two of those, you were dead. Well, ish. Also, I married someone else. Who turned out to be an assassin and working for your archenemy. Kind of beyond the scope of this conversation, except to underscore: utter shit.”

“We’ve had sex eleven times already,” Sherlock replies.

John sighs. “I don’t…” He drops to his knees in front of Sherlock, in the vee of his open legs, and runs his fingertips up and down Sherlock’s thighs. “In all seriousness, Sherlock, those were bad times, and I don’t want to risk ever going back to how it was before. If I’m being totally honest, I’m...I’m more than a little afraid. I don’t want to jump right back in to having sex. Everything feels so fragile right now, and I…” he shakes his head a little, looks at the floor. “I’m rubbish at putting this into words.”

Sherlock blinks a bit as he tries to process it all. Finally he sighs, both in irritation and acquiescence.

“I think I understand,” he says, which isn’t quite a fib. He wants John in his bed more than he wants to follow ridiculous (and likely fabricated) rules of “dating,” but he also knows that John feels some need to prove himself to Sherlock, needs to feel like he is worthy of his trust. Sherlock doesn’t think John needs to prove anything, ever, but he wants John to be happy, so...

“Whatever you think is best,” Sherlock concedes. “Though, in the interest of full disclosure, I want you to know I find this all a bit...frustrating.” He can’t help himself from proving his words by taking one of John’s hands where it rests on his thigh and bringing it up to cup the hardness of his cock through his wool trousers. 

John’s eyes flutter closed as he wraps his hand around Sherlock’s length and strokes him through the fabric. “You never did play fair, you bastard,” he breathes. 

Sherlock’s hips twitch, a small involuntary thrust into John’s grip. It feels unbelievably good, and a small needy noise escapes Sherlock’s throat at the sensation. “I’m just--” oh, bloody hell, the friction of it, sending sparks of pure pleasure through his body-- “making sure you know what you’re missing out on tonight.”

John stills his hand and pulls away, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. “You are a gorgeous, manipulative bastard,” he murmurs darkly, “but I am not giving in.” His fingers brush Sherlock’s hair, cards through his mad nimbus of curls. “Tomorrow night. Get something in for dinner. I’ll cook, if you like.”

Sherlock tries to glare at John, though his pounding pulse and raging hard-on make it a bit difficult to convey much seriousness. “I hate you,” he grumbles sulkily.

John stands, adjusts his trousers, kisses Sherlock on the top of his head. “No, you don’t.”

Sherlock sighs, looks up at him. “No,” he concedes, “I really don’t.”

***

Unable to focus on research or reading or even his violin, Sherlock gives up and actually takes himself to bed. He lay there for what may have been hours, lonely and full of aching want, remembering the feel of John’s mouth on his own, John’s hands roaming across body.

He thinks of desert stars, bright as jewels on black velvet. He thinks of dark matter, glowing nebulae, the dust debris of countless millennia coming together at last into something new and unformed and full of promise. He thinks of new stars forming, the intense heat and pressure leading to a moment of deuterium fusion, a flash of light in the dark corner of a distant galaxy. 

He wonders, irrationally, if it hurts when a new star is born.

Unaware that he slept, Sherlock awakens to late morning sunlight streaming through the windows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not going to change,” Sherlock says truthfully. 
> 
> “Who said you have to change? He’s as cracked as you are. In fact, you’re absolutely perfect together.” Greg shakes his head. “The two of you just have to get back on the same page and have a little trust in each other again.”
> 
> Honestly, this is getting ridiculously sentimental. It makes Sherlock feel itchy and annoyed.
> 
> “How fortunate for me you’ve realized your true calling as an agony aunt,” he snaps, but it lacks any real bite. “How, then, do you suggest we do that?”
> 
> “I don’t know,” Greg sighs. “I guess you could try something outlandish and, you know, trade in some of the drama for actually talking to one another.”
> 
> “That’s your brilliant advice.” Sherlock’s smile is thin, sardonic. “We should talk about it.”
> 
> Greg spreads his hands out in a ‘what the hell do you want’ gesture. “Well,” he says, “ _yeah._ ” He huffs and folds his arms. “Anyway, you two dumb bastards better work this out, cos God knows no one else wants to put up with either one of you.”

In Sherlock’s defense, it’s not like he _meant_ to get caught up in a bank robbery.

John asked him to get something for dinner, so under the nebulous concept of “being a good boyfriend” (is that what they are? Sherlock realizes he doesn’t know what they are, exactly, then rejects the whole line of thought as mostly tedious and more than a little unsettling) he undertakes a hated trip to Tesco.

He is vaguely considering something involving pasta, maybe, or a salad (God, he’s so terrible at this kind of thing; he can cook and he’s very good at it, better than John in all honesty, but the planning and shopping bits bore him to death) and he’s filing this entire train of thought under “Reasons John Should Just Come Back to Baker Street” when he notices the man several paces ahead of him is wearing an obviously fake black wig and beard. His overcoat is several sizes too big as well, and the lumpiness of his silhouette suggests he has an empty duffel bag and a coil of rope strapped to his back under the coat.

Sherlock hadn’t really intended to follow the man into the bank, but it is all so very _interesting_ , far more so than shopping, that his feet take him through the revolving doors without much conscious thought. He starts a garbled message to Lestrade, texting from inside his coat pocket, but before Sherlock can hit send the would-be robber pulls out a gun (semi-automatic, Israeli origin, very unusual) and the whole thing suddenly gets very loud and very, very stupid.

Surveying the employees as they are herded into the lobby, Sherlock quickly identifies the head teller (the lowest level employee with access to all the cash drawers, and thus the probable target of the bank robber’s attention) and manages to subtly maneuver himself next to her as the robber momentarily looks elsewhere. 

She is dressed in a fashion similar to the other tellers, her clothing high street, but her better quality of shoes (Tory Burch, wedge heel, 2013 collection) indicate a higher pay grade. She wears a garishly large diamond engagement ring (two carats, cushion cut, white gold), but no wedding band. She is crying, sobbing in fact, and her tears pique Sherlock’s curiosity. Bank employees have training in situations such as this. Surely she should show a bit more mastery over her emotions.

The robber strides over to the head teller, who lay prone on the marble floor next to Sherlock.

“Come on, you,” the man growls as he points his gun at her, forcing her to her feet. That’s when Sherlock notices the spirit gum residue on the edge of her right thumb and it all comes together.

It’s not fear that’s making her cry. It’s nerves.

“You’re bluffing. You won’t shoot her,” Sherlock says evenly, climbing to his feet.

“Back on the floor, or I’ll blow her head off,” the would-be robber hisses, pressing the muzzle to the side of woman’s head. She whimpers.

“You won’t,” said Sherlock, “because she’s your fiancée, and you’ve planned this together.”

The woman goes silent and wide-eyed as the robber takes the gun away from her head and aims it at Sherlock.

“Shut up, you obnoxious twat,” he snarls.

“You’re both in debt,” Sherlock continues, undeterred. “You’ve the right thumb of an internet addict, so I’m thinking online gambling. Her shoes say compulsive shopping problem. You talked her into it, didn’t you? You promised her no one would get hurt.”

The robber shakes his head and gives Sherlock a contemptuous sneer, raises the gun to point it squarely between Sherlock’s eyes. His eyes are hard, but his hand quivers just a fraction. “That may be true,” he says. “But I don’t give a fuck about shooting _you_ , do I.”

 _Bugger,_ thinks Sherlock. _He may have a point there._

He rolls the dice.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock says. “But I think she does.”

He stands stock still, hoping the woman will crack under the pressure.

The man’s fingers tighten on the grip. For a split second Sherlock stares down the muzzle of the Jericho 941 and thinks he may have badly miscalculated. He has a flash of terrible, bone-deep regret that he will break John’s heart yet again. 

The criminal’s split second of hesitation spares Sherlock’s life. His indecision gives the teller a moment to scream “Eric, no!” and grab frantically at the man’s arm. The shot goes wild, over Sherlock’s head, chips of plaster flying as the bullet strikes the wall. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate, using the moment of distraction to efficiently disarm and subdue the man.

 _John will be so impressed._ Sherlock thinks with relief as he straddles the would-be criminal, pinning his arms easily behind his back as the faint sounds of police sirens grow louder.

As Lestrade strides over to him he apparently can’t decide between grinning with pride and rolling his eyes right out of his head at the detective’s reckless foolhardiness. It makes his face look like he’s having a stroke. Sherlock tells him so.

Lestrade must have called John, because he arrives a short time later, looking pale and worried. Sherlock sees him and grins. He can’t wait to hear the fondness in John’s voice, the praise John will heap on him for being clever and brave.

Sherlock stands, opens his mouth to tell him all about his exciting adventure, but then he sees the look on John’s face and it stops him cold.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, confused, brows drawing together as he tries to parse John’s stony expression.

“What’s wrong,” John repeats flatly. He looks at the ground, shakes his head. He smiles, but it’s his dangerous smile, the one that comes right before someone gets punched.

Sherlock hopes it’s not him. John _promised_.

John exhales, clenches and unclenches his fist. Looks up at Sherlock, emotions tucked away behind stone walls, blue eyes gone grey and unreadable.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he says in a voice devoid of emotion. “I’m taking you home.”

***

John is quiet and thin-lipped until they return to the flat.

“You’re angry,” says Sherlock once they are behind the closed door of 221B. “Why are you angry?”

“You really don’t know,” Johns snorts in disbelief. “I’m angry because you almost got yourself killed. Again. You sodding idiot. Every time I turn around you’re getting yourself in some kind of mortal fucking danger and one of these days your ridiculous luck is going to run out and you’re going to _die._ ”

“I stopped a bank robbery,” Sherlock protests. “I did a good thing, I helped people, and for that you’re angry with me?”

“I don’t care,” John snaps, his voice hard and dangerous. “I don’t care about that bank. I don’t care about those people. Some arsehole was pointing a gun at your head and he _pulled the trigger_ and he almost killed you over nothing and…” John closes his eyes, breathes, pinches the bridge of his nose. “And I wasn’t there,” he finishes. “You were reckless and thoughtless and I wasn’t there.”

Later, Sherlock will grudgingly concede that he missed a large part of what John was trying to convey in this moment. But right now, Sherlock is hurt and confused. He had been expecting praise and admiration from John, and instead--

“You think I need protection?” Sherlock snarls. “Here’s a newsflash: I don’t. I don’t know where everyone got this idea that I’m some kind of fragile flower, but I’m not. I am _not._ ” Sherlock is louder now, almost but not quite shouting. “For God’s sake, John, I am a grown man. I’m Sherlock Fucking Holmes, I’m cleverer than the lot of you put together, and _I don’t need you._ ”

“Of course you don’t,” John hisses. “God forbid I forget. Sherlock Holmes is so clever, so bloody clever he doesn’t need anyone else, and he certainly needn’t concern himself with the people who care about him. He’s so bloody above it all he needn’t ever stop to think about the people he leaves behind, does he?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath. This has taken a turn for the ugly with shocking speed. 

“John,” he says, softer, trying to calm himself, because he is upset and John is upset and they are both on the brink of saying things they will regret later. 

“How many more times, Sherlock?” John asks, his voice gone hoarse with anger and frustration. “How many more times do I have to mourn you? I did it for two years already, how long will it be for the next round? Will we do another dress rehearsal, or will you stay decently _dead_ this time?”

Something inside Sherlock snaps.

“No,” he says.

“What?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock says, voice brittle and cold with hurt. “You don’t get to do this. I’ve paid for what I did. You knew why I did it, and you knew how sorry I was, and still you made me pay and pay and pay. You’ve hurt me and you’ve made me bleed and you’ve gotten your pound of flesh from me and then some, so you know what?” He exhales hard, feels the hot prickle of unshed tears, oh Christ. “No. You don’t get to use that against me any more. Not ever again.”

John staggers back a half-step, as though he’s been slapped. 

Sherlock suddenly sees that maybe he hasn’t forgiven John as completely as he believed. He honestly hadn’t realized.

The two are silent for a long moment. Then another. John looks stricken, horrified, grey with guilt and shame.

“I’m sorry,” John says softly. “Oh God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock is so tired, so sick to death of the whole thing. 

“Leave,” he says flatly.

“Sherlock, please.”

“No. Get out.”

“Please. I didn’t--”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

John gets the fuck out.

Sherlock feels exhausted, heavy, as if all his bones have been filled with lead. He slumps onto the sofa and shuts his eyes. They are dry but itchy and hot behind closed lids.

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but the adrenaline of the day has left him exhausted and as afternoon stretches into evening he drifts into an uneasy slumber.

He dreams of John, lost in the desert sands, lost in darkness so complete it might be outer space. Sherlock knows he’s out there, hears his voice from somewhere beyond the horizon, and Sherlock looks and looks but can’t find him anywhere.

***

The next morning dawns rainy and grey, chilly for midsummer.

Lestrade calls and threaten-pleads Sherlock into coming down to NSY for some imaginary bit of unfinished paperwork regarding Jim Browner, the severed-ear murderer.

Sherlock knows knows a pretext when he hears one and is unsurprised when Greg looks up from his desk wearing his well-used “I have something important to say” expression.

“Close the door,” Greg says, and gestures at the chair. Sherlock huffs at him in irritation but takes the offered a seat, arranging his coat around himself as he stares flatly at the DI.

Greg, however, is not easily put off by Sherlock’s various deflection tactics and plunges forward undeterred.

“John kipped on my couch last night,” he says. “Apparently he and his sister had a bit of a row over how he’s dealing with his situation. The ‘situation’, by the way, is you, in case that was unclear.”

“Even Harry is on my side,” muses Sherlock. “And I don’t even like her.”

Greg smirks, just a fraction. “I think you’re misunderstanding the nature of the disagreement. I’m pretty sure Harry thinks the two of you are a codependent disaster and John is best served by staying far, far away from you. I may be quoting directly here.”

“Well, you didn’t need to sugarcoat it,” replies Sherlock.

Greg shrugs. “Can’t say I argue with any particular point.”

Sherlock cocks his head and smiles thinly. “At any rate, I didn’t know you and John were back on good terms,” he says. “Everyone else in my life still hates him. In fact, I’m not overly fond of him myself at the moment.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t hate him,” Greg says, his face growing more serious. “In fact, I know a bit about what he’s been through, maybe better than most.” He looks away, scratches the back of his neck. “Me and the missus... well, the ex missus. We lost a baby. Our first. Stillborn.” He looks at Sherlock hard, his eyes almost daring him to say something thoughtless or cutting.

Sherlock begins to arrange his face in dismissive impatience, but then he remembers Amelia, the tiny coffin that held her.

(Because he can’t stop himself from thinking about the fact that it happens every day, doesn’t it, all the babies that die, and the dogs, too, and the grandmothers, all the beloved beings that die every single day and every one of them belongs to someone’s John, don’t they, and suddenly he sees it, sees it all, and this is why caring is such a devastating liability, because for a brief searing moment every cell in his body hurts--)

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, voice low and rough, and he truly means it.

“It was a long time ago,” says Greg. “We moved on, because you have to, right? But we were never the same, not really. The thing is, Sherlock… a person can’t imagine what it feels like until it happens to them. And Mary leaving him, and before that…”

 _Before that, me,_ Sherlock mentally supplies. _What I did to him._

“... and everything else that happened. Whatever bad times the two of you had, I really do think he was in a terrible place he’ll never be in again. Sometimes when people are hurting, intense emotions get, you know, misplaced. I see it all the time. You see it all the time. It doesn’t mean that those people are bad. It means those people are damaged.”

Sherlock says nothing, but he makes no move to stop Greg from talking.

“John’s a good man at heart,” Greg continues, “and I’ve never really thought otherwise, and I suppose I’m more inclined to forgive him than others might be.“

“He’s angry with me,” Sherlock says, wrapping himself defensively in his woundedness. “And I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You scared him,” Greg says. “You’re always scaring him, the way you just throw yourself into danger without even thinking. He’s lost so much, Sherlock. So goddamn much. He’s scared of losing you too. He shouldn’t act like such a tit about it, but he’s just scared.”

“I’m not going to change,” Sherlock says truthfully. 

“Who said you have to change? He’s as cracked as you are. In fact, you’re absolutely perfect together.” Greg shakes his head. “The two of you just have to get back on the same page and have a little trust in each other again.”

Honestly, this is getting ridiculously sentimental. It makes Sherlock feel itchy and annoyed.

“How fortunate for me you’ve realized your true calling as an agony aunt,” he snaps, but it lacks any real bite. “How, then, do you suggest we do that?”

“I don’t know,” Greg sighs. “I guess you could try something outlandish and, you know, trade in some of the drama for actually _talking_ to one another.”

“That’s your brilliant advice.” Sherlock’s smile is thin, sardonic. “We should talk about it.”

Greg spreads his hands out in a ‘what the hell do you want’ gesture. “Well,” he says, “ _yeah_.” He huffs and folds his arms. “Anyway, you two dumb bastards better work this out, cos God knows no one else wants to put up with either one of you.”

Greg’s expression is a bit frustrated and annoyed but also more than a little fond, and it makes Sherlock feel horribly defensive and exposed. It’s all far more than he can deal with, so he assembles his face back into a cool, impassive mask.

“If John really wants to talk, he knows how to reach me.” Sherlock stands, turns up his collar. “If there’s nothing else, Detective,” he says, “I really am too busy to waste time on idle chit chat.” He strides out, hearing the DI’s resigned sigh as he rudely, deliberately neglects to close the door behind him.

***

Sherlock resolves not to text John. He’s the aggrieved party here. John needs to come to him.

All evening long, though, he can’t help but half-listen for a message alert that never comes. 

He picks up the phone, sighs, drops it again. Fights the impulse to throw it across the room.

He microwaves pieces of thyroid. The smell of it permeates the flat and Mrs. Hudson comes up to yell at him.

“Young man,” she snaps, “what on earth have you done? It smells like the Grim Reaper himself in here.”

Sherlock flips his phone in his long fingers. “Bored,” he sighs, and what he really means is _lonely and sad_ but he’s not yet so far gone that he’d admit to that kind of weakness.

Mrs. Hudson tuts, begins tidying the kitchen. “Honestly,” she says, “I do sometimes wish John still lived here. You were so much happier with him here, and a lot easier to handle, I don’t mind telling you.”

“I thought you hated John,” Sherlock says.

Mrs. Hudson sighs, sits in John’s chair. “I don’t hate him, love. I’m angry with him, but I don’t hate him.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. “We’re talking about this. Did I ask to talk about this? Somehow I don’t recall.”

“I hate what you did to each other,” she continues. “Relationships... they’re a two way street, Sherlock. And the two of you? You both live for all that drama, you know. Sometimes I think you bring out the worst in each other.”

“Everyone says that,” grumbles Sherlock. "Why does everyone keep _saying_ that?”

“Because it’s true, dear. You two aren’t happy unless you’re in some kind of danger or... I don’t know, life-or-death situation. It’s exhausting to watch, honestly.”

“Why are you still talking?” Sherlock wonders aloud.

“What I’m saying is, you affect each other. You both take things to such _extremes,_ Sherlock. What went on before, he bears most of the blame, but I…” she shakes her head, flaps a hand at him. “Never mind, love. I go on, sometimes.” She stands, straightens her skirt.

Sherlock sits up, looks at her. Now he’s intrigued. “But what, Mrs. Hudson?” 

“Frank and I--”

“Oh yes, do tell me about Frank. Your knight in shining armour, that man among men.”

“We fought like cats and dogs,” she says as if Sherlock hadn’t rudely interrupted her. “He was immature, you see, and I was insecure, and all I ever wanted was to be sure of him.” She looks at Sherlock, her eyes motherly and kind but also no-nonsense in her own voluble fashion. “Maybe John needs to be sure of you.”

“For goodness sake,” Sherlock snaps, “what does that even mean?” 

“It means…” Mrs. Hudson hovers in the doorway as she searches for the right words. “I wish someone would have taken me aside just one time and told me that thriving on drama like that, well, it has a cost. If I had known that sooner…” She looks more serious than Sherlock has ever seen her, and her eyes are sad. “I might have done a few things differently. I suppose I regret that.”

Sherlock is at a bit of a loss. “Well,” he mutters. “Yes. Thank you for your input, I suppose.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine, dear,” she chirps, the sadness gone so quickly Sherlock almost wonders if he imagined it. “I’m about to put on the kettle. I’ll make you a cuppa.”

“No, thank you.”

“And a nice sandwich.”

“Not hungry.”

And he doesn’t want them, he _doesn’t_ , but the tea has just the right splash of milk, and the cheese sandwich has a touch of Branston pickle, his favourite. He gives in and consumes both, chewing resentfully as considers the possible merit of his landlady’s words.

Evening stretches into night, turns the corner to morning.

His mobile stays hatefully silent.

***

The next afternoon, Sherlock is prepping slides when his text alert pings. He ignores it---it’s too far away and his hands are covered in human glandular tissue--then it pings again. And again.

By the time Sherlock washes his hands and picks up his mobile, he has 23 texts and six voicemail messages.

He opens the text app. Reads the first message then the second. He puts the phone down, gets up and goes into the lounge to retrieve his laptop.

****  
 **Johnwatsonblog.co.uk**

_July 19_

_**Some Things I Need to Say**_

_This gets personal, so if that’s not your cup of tea then you should stop reading right about… here._

_You’re still reading. Well, don’t say you hadn’t been warned._

_Anyway._

_Of course, this is about Sherlock._

_Two days ago, Sherlock stopped a bank robbery in progress and almost got himself shot in the head in the process._

_Sherlock would be the first person to tell you he’s not a hero; he followed the would-be robber into the bank out of interest, not really intending to prevent a crime. But in the end, he subdued a criminal, prevented a robbery, and likely saved lives. All of that, in my book, is the very definition of heroism._

_And what did I do, after the fact?_

_I yelled at him and I accused him of being selfish._

_Clearly he is not the selfish one here. I am. And I want nothing more than to go to him and spill my heart out, tell him all the reasons I do the things I do, what scares me and pushes my buttons and makes me lose my temper. Unfortunately, both of us are thoroughly, stereotypically British about matters of the heart and completely awful at communicating or dealing with emotions or anything of the sort._

_I can’t help but think if we could have a bloody conversation about our feelings--just once-- we might have sorted ourselves out years ago instead of doing all the terrible things we’ve done to one another._

_It seems I am much better at putting important things in writing than I am at saying them out loud._

_We live our lives in the public eye; it seems fitting, then, that some of the most important words I have ever had to say I’m writing down here, for the whole world to witness._

_Sherlock--_

_I’m not angry with you. I’m scared. It seems like the world is always trying to take you away from me, and every time you end up in danger I think, this is it. This is the other shoe dropping. This time, I’m going to lose you for real. And it terrifies me._

_The life we’ve chosen is ridiculous and dangerous and there are no guarantees. I know this, and I will never ask you to change who you are. I don’t want you to change who you are. But don’t ask me to stop trying to protect you, because I can’t. I will spend the rest of my life, down to my very last breath, trying to keep you safe from harm._

_Not because you need protecting. You don’t. You are brave, and brilliant, and incredibly skilled at what you do. You may not need me. But here’s the thing: I need you. Desperately. And just this once, I won’t let my pride keep me from admitting it._

_I am very sorry for overreacting, and for being short-tempered and unkind. I wish I wasn’t those things. But I don’t think I’ll ever change, and I won’t ever stop wanting to keep you safe._

_Because you, Sherlock Holmes, are the center of my universe, the absolute most important thing in the world to me, and if you didn’t know that before, you do now._

_What I am saying in far too many words, in front of the entire Internet (deep breath, Watson), is this:_

_I am in love with you. Desperately, completely gone on you. Pretty much always have been._

_And I’m terrible, terrible at being in love. (And for the record, so are you. We’re a matched set in that regard.) So if I fumble and fail and get confused and at times shouty, I am truly sorry. I am not good at this. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. I do. I love you. With every fibre of my being, with every beat of my heart, I love you._

_I told you once I am trying to be brave. This is as brave as I can be. My declaration to you, in front of the entire world, is the one gift I can give you that’s maybe big enough and brave enough to give you a reason to forgive me and trust in me again._

_I hope it’s enough._

***Comments Disabled***

***

_**I have made a flawed deduction, operating on an incomplete dataset. I do, in fact, need you. Terribly. --SH** _

His phone rings.

Sherlock freezes for a moment. Tries to think of something intelligent to say. Fails.

He picks it up.

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi. So. You saw it.”

“I did.”

“So are you…”

“John.” Sherlock stops. Considers. “Just... just come home. “ He takes a breath. “Please.”

John exhales. It sounds like relief.

“Okay.”

***

Sherlock showers and dresses, mind racing, trying to think of what John might say. What he should say to John. How to make things right, once and for all.

He dresses carefully and dries his hair, waiting for John to ring the doorbell, trying to ignore the nerves gnawing away at the pit of his stomach. He’s pacing the sitting room, crossing back and forth across the faded rug on bare feet, when he hears Mrs. Hudson open the front door. Sherlock is not at all surprised to hear Mrs. Hudson speaking in fond tones, and John’s deeper voice growing muffled as she envelops him in a hug at the foot of the steps. Sentiment and fondness won her over in the end, and Sherlock can’t help but smile a bit at the notion.

As footsteps climb the stairs Sherlock stands still in the middle of the room, feeling rooted to the spot as John opens the unlocked door and enters, carrying a large duffel and a laptop case. He enters the sitting room and slides both of them to the floor, an arm’s length away from Sherlock.

“It looks like you’re planning a long stay somewhere,” Sherlock observes, not willing to risk his hope-- _stay here, John, stay forever_ \-- by giving it voice.

“I’ve been thinking,” John says.

“So I’ve read,” Sherlock says dryly.

“Yeah.” A ghost of a smile touches John’s lips. “As it turns out, I had a completely wrong idea in my head. I thought--” He shakes his head just a fraction--”I thought taking it slow was safer, in some way. That I could protect myself. That I could protect my heart. And yours. But it’s much too late for that, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sherlock says softly.

“Yeah. So.” John takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders. “I’m all in. If you want me, I’m all in.”

“John,” Sherlock says, moving closer, close enough to place his hands on his chest and look down into his eyes. “You should know, you must know. I will always want you.” He brings long fingers up, brushes a fringe of soft hair off John’s forehead. “But I don’t want you to always feel so afraid of losing me. That’s a burden you shouldn’t have to carry.”

“Well,” John says. “I don’t want to change you. Not ever. And unless I roll you up in bubble wrap for the rest of your life, I guess that’s just the way it’s got to be.”

Sherlock thinks for a moment. Honestly, the answer is so simple, so obvious. It’s a bit embarrassing it’s taken them this long to figure it out.

“What if we promised?” Sherlock asks him.

“What?” asks John. His head tilts quizzically.

“What if we promised,” Sherlock says. His hands come down to grip John’s biceps. He grins at the perfection of the idea. “Right now, today, we promise each other that no one is leaving ever again.”

John rolls his eyes a bit, but Sherlock sees a spark of hope there. 

“You can’t promise me that. It’s not that simple, Sherlock.”

“It is, though.” Sherlock said. “It really, really is. Look.” Sherlock digs in his trouser pocket, places the silver key in John’s hand, closes his fingers over it. 

“I made a vow once, a lifetime ago,” he says softly, stroking his thumb over the back of John’s hand. “So many things have changed since then, but this part is still absolutely true.”

Brings John’s fingers up to his mouth, brushes his lips across them. 

“John Watson,” he murmurs, his voice a soft deep rumble, “I promise I will never leave you again.” Sherlock kisses him, closemouthed, almost chaste. He pulls back a bit and smiles. “See? Simple.”

John’s face does a funny thing as he gazes at Sherlock, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I want to show you something,” he says, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. On the grey ball chain from John’s old ID circles hangs a round, polished piece of stone. It is a lovely pale blue-green, streaked with flecks of gold and brown.

“It’s jasper,” says John, “from Yemen. I saw it in a marketplace in Aden, the morning after I wrote the first letter to you. The colours reminded me of your eyes.” John pulls the pendant over his neck, places it in Sherlock’s hand. “I want you to have it,” John says, voice rough and choked. “To remind you that I’m always thinking about you.”

Sherlock runs his fingers over the stone. He thinks about John, sprawled across a narrow cot in the desert night, holding this stone in his warm palm and missing him.

His chest feels tight. It’s hard to breathe.

“I mean, you don’t have to wear it,” John says, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I know it’s not your style--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says, and slips the chain over his head. The stone, still warm from John’s skin, nestles over his heart like it was always meant to be there. 

John reaches out, closes his fingers around it. He looks up at Sherlock. His lashes are a damp, dark fringe around slate blue eyes that are filled to the brim with nameless, depthless emotion.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he breathes, “I promise I will never leave you again.” He pulls gently on the chain, pulls Sherlock down into a kiss, a warm, simple press of lips that is devastating in its devotion. 

Sherlock’s large hands come up to cup each side of John’s face as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, licking at John’s lips. John sighs, a tiny breathy sound, as he opens his mouth in welcome, their tongues meeting and sliding against each other. They kiss and kiss, deep and wet and full of need, and Sherlock can’t help the embarrassing bubble of joy that rises up inside him. He pulls back and looks at John, feeling the ridiculous grin stretching across his face. John’s fingers stroke the nape of Sherlock’s neck, fingers twining in the overgrown curls there, and he answers with a grin of his own.

“You’re home to stay,” Sherlock says. He’s stating the blindingly obvious, but it feels so damn good to say it out loud.

“I’m home to stay,” John replies.

“Can I take you to bed?” Sherlock asks.

John’s lips brush the underside of his jaw. “Absolutely,” he breathes.

Sherlock swallows down a burst of nerves, nods, and grabs John’s hand, pulling him through the kitchen and into his bedroom.

They’re barely behind the closed door as they collide against each other, mouths and tongues battling hot and frantic as their hands pull at clothing. John undoes the last button on Sherlock’s shirt and wrestles it off. He begins fumbling with Sherlock’s trousers, blindly trying to unhook the loop closure, refusing to break away from their kiss. Sherlock huffs a laugh into John’s mouth and pushes him back, places hands on his shoulders and presses him down until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. 

John looks up at him, dazed and half wrecked. His hair is mussed into spikes, eyes wide, shirt unbuttoned and half off his shoulders at three in the afternoon, and Sherlock feels a wave of pure hot lust wash over him. He steps back and slowly, deliberately undoes his trousers, locking eyes with John as he slides them off his narrow hips. He stands before John in only his snug black boxer briefs, refusing to drop his gaze, feeling aroused and self conscious and incredibly vulnerable. In this moment the feel of the chain around his neck, John’s token, is somehow anchoring, keeping him present in the moment.

John flicks the tip of his tongue against his lip. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Come _here_.”

John reaches for him, hands wrapping around his hips, pulling him close. He kisses Sherlock’s belly, tasting the skin there, as his fingers slip under the waistband of his pants and slide them carefully down, freeing his stiff cock from the confines of fabric. Sherlock drops a hand onto John’s shoulder to steady himself as he steps out of his pants, then John wraps his hand around his length, gently nudging his foreskin fully back, thumb rubbing gently against the sensitive underside. Sherlock whimpers low in his throat, thrusting a little into John’s warm fist.

“So fucking beautiful,” John whispers, and dips his head. Sherlock makes an incoherent noise as he looks down, watches the tip of his cock slip past John’s lips and into the lush heat of his mouth. The slick wet warmth surrounds him, floods his body with overwhelming sensation, making him gasp as his hips push forward. John’s hands rest on the back of his thighs, anchoring him as his head bobs, slowly, tasting him, exploring him, sending sparking shivering pleasure across every nerve. After several long, slow moments of gentle suckling, John pulls off, kisses the top of his thigh. 

“You taste amazing,” John says. He scoots back, away from the edge of the bed, and grasps Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock tumbles onto the bed gracelessly, sprawling half on top of John, kissing him with a wet, demanding mouth, the taste of himself on John’s lips sparking fire through his veins. His mouth slides across the edge of John’s jaw, feeling the sandpaper friction of stubble there as John makes tiny breathy noises and wrestles with his own trousers.

Finally after some flailing and rearranging and giggling they are both naked, Sherlock on top of John, surrounding his body with long limbs as they kiss, long deep luxurious melding of lips and tongues. Their hips move together, their hard cocks grinding and moving against each other, the friction and pleasure intoxicating but not yet overwhelming. They’ve never been like this before, slow and loving, laid open for each other in the daylight, and it makes Sherlock feel dizzy and exhilarated. 

He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on John’s as they both pant for air.

“You’re gorgeous,” says Sherlock. “You’re spectacular.”

John’s arms tighten around him. “You’re mine,” he whispers. 

He kisses John’s cheek and slides downwards, licks a path down the side of John’s neck. “I am,” he breathes against warm skin. “I always have been.” He bites gently at the juncture of his shoulder, tasting the tang of clean sweat and soap and washing powder, making John moan low in his throat. He traces his tongue along the edge of a collarbone, dipping into the hollow of his suprasternal notch, moves lower, dropping gentle kisses across his chest, the faded silver lines of his scar. He finds a small, flat nipple, circles it with his tongue, closes his lips over it and sucks gently, making John gasp and arch.

“Jesus. Oh God. Yes.” John whimpers as Sherlock bites at the pebbled flesh, pulls gently, then soothes him with wide flat swipes of his tongue. He moves to the other nipple, sucking and nipping as his fingers travel lower, sliding across his hipbone, tracing circles on the inside of his thigh, stroking the soft thatch of hair between his legs. John sighs and spreads his legs wider, encouraging his exploration. Sherlock takes his time, biting at the tiny bit of softness at John’s belly as he cups the warm weight of his testicles, rolling them gently between his fingers. His cock is stiff, almost flush against his lower belly, and as his fingers press gently against his perineum he licks the length of John’s cock, flicks his tongue against the slit, licking away a drop of clear precome as John moans and shudders underneath him.

He moves away from his cock, making John huff a breath of frustration as Sherlock kisses the crease of his thigh, inhaling the warm clean musk of him, and then licking and tasting down the inside of his leg, making him squirm and groan in frustration as Sherlock takes his time, wanting to taste every inch of skin he can, enjoying the feel of John’s soft skin under his lips.

“Killing me, oh God, you’re killing me,” John pants, weaving his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulling gently. Sherlock plants a final kiss on the inside of John’s thigh and moves back up, allowing John to capture his mouth in another bruising, needy kiss.

“I want you so much,” Sherlock whispers against his mouth. “I want--”

John pulls back, kisses his forehead. “Anything, love,” he murmurs. “Anything you want.”

“I want you in me,” Sherlock whispers against his hair. “I want to feel like you’re part of me.”

John captures his sore, swollen lips in a bruising kiss.“God,” John breathes into his mouth. “Oh, God. Yes.”

Sherlock’s hands slide across the small of John’s back, move down to explore the warm curves of his arse. “Side table drawer,” he says quietly, the softness of his words a counterpoint to his insistent fingertips.

John kisses him once more, biting and tugging gently on his bottom lip before releasing him. He slides partway off Sherlock, reaching across to the drawer and finding the small plastic bottle. Sherlock spreads his legs wide in invitation, feet flat on the bed, and John kneels in between them. He runs his hands across Sherlock’s concave belly, brushes fingertips across the sharp curve of his iliac crest.

“I can’t believe you’re real, sometimes,” John says, his voice quiet and hoarse. “How are you real?” Sherlock moans and tilts his hips up in silent entreaty and John takes pity on him, wraps a warm hand around his heavy, aching cock and stroking him, making him arch and gasp as the pleasure ripples through his body.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes out. “Yes, oh yes, need you, need you _now_.”

John dips his head, kisses the hollow of his pelvis. “You’ve got me, love,” he murmurs, opening the bottle cap one-handed, tipping a generous amount of lube into his palm. Sherlock watches him slick his fingers, bring them up to gently brush his perineum. Sherlock closes his eyes against the onslaught of sensation as John’s slippery fingers circle his entrance, coaxing, caressing. He feels the gentle pressure as John seeks entrance and breathes out, relaxes, and lets the finger slip into his body. It’s been so long, so very long, and he can’t help but tense and whimper at the sensation of intrusion.

“It’s okay,” John murmurs against his skin. “I’ve got you, shhh, it’s okay,” gently stroking his cock as his finger slides in deeper, seeking, and the pleasure and discomfort war with each other for several moments until John presses in just a little more just so and--

“Oh, God,” Sherlock breathes. “John. _John_. Yes.”

John circles his prostate, brushing it gently. Sherlock had forgotten how good this could feel, even when they had been rough and brutal with each other it had felt so good, but like this, with John fully devoted to giving him pleasure-- it was indescribable, shivers of hot sensation flooding his body, aching need pooling at the base of his spine.

“More,” he says, spreading his legs even wider in desperate entreaty. “Please, John, it’s so good, oh please--”

John adds a second finger, and the stretch and burn flare briefly but then subside as the pressure and fullness become blissful pleasure as Sherlock’s hips move involuntarily, thrusting against John’s fist and rocking against his fingers, each movement winding the unbearable tension higher and higher.

“You’re so perfect like this,” John murmurs reverently. “No one else will ever, ever see you like this. Just me. Only me.”

Sherlock moans helplessly at John’s gentle possessiveness, at the nakedness of his own wanton need as he grinds down on John’s fingers, giving in to the animal desire for more, more fullness, more pressure, more pleasure.

“Please,” he rasps brokenly. “Oh, God, I want more, John, God, just fuck me already.”

John’s inquisitive fingers still. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” he pants. “Yes, God, yes.”

John withdraws his fingers, and Sherlock feels empty and cold as John sits back on his heels, pouring lube into his hand and slicking his beautiful flushed cock. He needs John, needs him so much, and he hears whimpering, desperate noises and it’s not until John says “Shhh, love, it’s okay, I’m here,” that he realizes he’s the one making them. 

John runs his hands down Sherlock’s legs, and stops, runs gentle fingers over the scar on Sherlock’s calf from that terrible night so long ago. He bends to kiss it, traces it with his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against the faint raised curve. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s over,” Sherlock says, his voice thick and hoarse. “It’s over, it’s in the past.”

“It’s still there,” John says, and he sounds so sad it hurts Sherlock’s heart. He tugs gently on John’s hair, pulls him up, kisses him.

“It will always be there,” he says quietly. “But it’s not what we _are_. All right?”

John gives him a small, crooked smile. “All right.”

Sherlock kisses him again. “Now, if it’s not too much to ask, I would very much like for you to fuck me.”

John huffs out a chuckle and pulls Sherlock’s long pale legs up over his shoulders, but his face grows serious and intense as he positions himself against his slick and loosened entrance. They are gazing into each other’s eyes as John presses slow, oh so slow but he doesn’t stop, just pushes into him bit by bit and the stinging fullness is almost too much for just a moment, making Sherlock whimper once, low in his throat.

“You okay?” John asks, and the tenderness in his voice is so lovely it makes Sherlock feel like his heart might break.

“Yes,” he breathes as the burn eases, replaced by a hot, insistent, pleasurable fullness. It feels like completion, like wholeness. “Don’t stop. God, don’t ever stop.”

John doesn’t pull back, he doesn’t stop. He enters Sherlock’s body so very slowly, inch by inch, until he is fully inside, his hips pressed into the flesh of Sherlock’s arse.

“You feel so good,” John murmurs in between soft breathy gasps. “God, Sherlock, you feel so fucking good, nothing has ever felt this good--”

John gasps a sharp indrawn breath, stills. Closes his eyes, breathes out, steadies himself. He opens his eyes, gazes down at Sherlock with a bit of a sheepish grin.

“Sorry,” he says. “Needed a moment. It’s been awhile.”

Sherlock asks the question that’s been roosting in the back of his mind.

“So you haven’t--”

“No. God, no.” John dips his head, kisses him. “There’s been no one else since, there couldn’t be anyone else but you.” He pulls back a bit. “And um, you?”

“No,” says Sherlock simply. “No one else. Never will be.”

John supports himself on one elbow, brings the other hand to tangle in Sherlock’s hair.

“I love you,” John murmurs and kisses him, soft and wet.

Sherlock looks over the edge, regards the abyss, decides to be brave.

“And I love you,” he whispers against John’s mouth.

They grin at each other for a moment like the lovesick idiots they are. Sherlock wraps his hands around John’s arse and tilts his hips up in unmistakable invitation.

“Now that we’ve established that, I need you to _move_ ,” he growls, trying for demanding but it comes out sounding ragged, pleading.

John groans low in his throat and snaps his hips, thrusting hard into Sherlock, making him cry out.

“Your wish,” he murmurs, “is my command,” and begins to fuck him in earnest, deep and powerful thrusts that make Sherlock gasp out incoherently.

“Harder,” he moans brokenly, “please, oh, harder, I want you, I want all of you--” 

John sits back on his heels, pulls Sherlock’s hips up higher. He finds just the right angle to graze his prostate with every stroke, making Sherlock keen in desperate pleasure, needy gasping cries as the spiralling tension draws his body tight as a bowstring, his climax closing in as electricity wraps around the base of his spine.

“I’m so close,” Sherlock moans softly. “Please, John, I’m so close.”

“Touch yourself,” John rasps, ragged and low as he drives himself deep into Sherlock’s body. “Please, love, I want it. Come for me.” 

Sherlock wraps his hand around his aching, leaking cock, pulls, strokes himself hard and fast. Within moments his climax crashes over him, overtakes him, and he comes with a sharp, bitten off cry. His body shudders as the waves of bliss wash over him, come spurting warm and wet over his fingers and onto his belly. John fucks him through it, each steady thrust sparking another silvery aftershock of pleasure.

“Yes,” John breathes, “so fucking hot, so fucking gorgeous, I love you, I love you so much.” His hips stutter as his own orgasm takes him. “Oh God. Sherlock.” He comes with a single choked moan, and as he stills Sherlock feels him pulse and spill deep inside his body.

John exhales hard and collapses on top of Sherlock. They lay tangled together for several minutes as their breathing slows and their skin cools, the air around them close and still, redolent with sex and pheromones. 

Sherlock realizes he’s mindlessly, animalistically nuzzling and mouthing at John’s sweat-damp hair. It feels good. Safe.

John makes a noise that’s half-chuckle, half-groan as he pulls out and rolls off of Sherlock, curling onto his side next to him. Sherlock winces a bit; he is definitely going to be feeling this for at least a day, possibly two.

“You all right?” John asks, kissing his shoulder.

“I’m sore, sweaty, and covered in DNA,” Sherlock murmurs. “Altogether, I’ve never been better.” He smiles at John, not even bothering to conceal the quiet tenderness he feels right now as he strokes a thumb across his cheekbone. “You?”

John sighs, smiles and yawns. “Feel like I could wrap myself up in you and sleep for a week.”

Sherlock finds a discarded item of clothing--John’s shirt, it will wash--and swipes at the stickiness on his stomach. Somewhat less slimy, he pulls John close. John relaxes against him, draping an arm around his waist.

“We should clean up,” John mumbles sleepily. “We’re really disgusting.”

“Later,” Sherlock murmurs. “Go to sleep, now.”

John drops almost instantly into slumber, Sherlock stroking his back as his breathing slows and evens out. Sherlock kisses the top of his head and smiles to himself in the quiet room. 

Later they will wake up and eat dinner. Sherlock will fiddle with his thyroid slides, and John will read a book, and then they will come back to bed and hold and touch and love each other all over again.

And he will wake up in the morning, and John will be there. For the rest of his life (despite the conflict and the bickering and the fighting sure to come--for it’s all true, they _do_ thrive on drama and struggle and Sherlock knows they will never really change) John has sworn to always be there. It’s a commitment almost beyond comprehension, and a gift Sherlock isn’t entirely sure he deserves.

But he can learn how to become worthy of John Watson. He may not succeed all or even most of the time, but he has the rest of his life to devote to the undertaking.

In what will become a lifelong habit, Sherlock brings his thumb and finger up and caresses the smooth round stone that lay over his heart.

He remembers the certainty in John’s shining, dark blue eyes. It surrounds him, wraps around his consciousness, soft and comforting. 

_I promise I will never leave you again._

For the first time in his life Sherlock allows himself to trust, to believe with his whole heart. He surrenders to the gravity well of this new star, drawn inexorably in by the promise of warmth and light, allows the pull of it to finally coax him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_~fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming along for this ride!
> 
> Comments are love, they are life, they are oxygen.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Process of Stellar Ignition [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176485) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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